I've been thinking about you often lately.
My feet walk the streets of a city that's not my own.
My career and the fear that I'll wander these streets alone.
I've been thinking about you often lately and our tireless embrace of the oldest clichés, the time that erases the places we stayed, the back alley shows and the old videos, the memory albums never arranged, and all the vacations that never came.
I promised you England again, you promised me Spain, and after more places than we could name.
I've been thinking about you often lately, how I'd only follow you so far, how you'd curl in a ball on the sofa, cat-like purr, engine hum.
The mildest frustrations would turn into love affairs in the warmest stares.
Is it too late to renew it again?
Last night I dreamed of the right city before me. I kissed my love goodbye and rode the trains at night with the right city outside, and I could not be happier.
The right city wins the odd championship, and the museums stand adjacent to the buildings and bridges, and in the pride of the night crooked steel arise, dirt and refuse on the walks outside.
My home overlooks the waterways, facile eyes passing me by, and constantly the people all look at me in the right way in the gardens, and I could not be happier.
And I found my love in the right city, I found a good job in the right city, and I could not be happier.